Pen to Paper
by exiled mind
Summary: Sometimes Sherlock needs help in certain areas... like that of the entirety of social interaction. Fortunately, he has friends, family, and insane archenemies willing to offer their assistance.


Prompt: 5 times someone wrote a letter of apology on Sherlock's behalf +1 time _he_ wrote one on behalf of someone.  
>Content Advisory: Language, sexual referencessituations  
>AN: This is a spruced up version of a kink meme fill. Many thanks to my supportive and entertaining beta and britpicker dltoro.

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><p><strong>Pen to Paper<strong>

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><p>The situation within Holmes Manor was swiftly approaching dire.<p>

Mother had been laid up in her suite for days suffering from 'malaise' and eating only when begged to by her maid, the family doctor in to monitor her condition, or Mycroft himself. She burst into tears at the slightest of encouragements, most particularly when she sensed a new, concerned acquaintance of hers was in to visit her and offer their support (and get the latest gossip, if Mycroft's suppositions were correct, which they quite often were), and had to be patted and prodded for nearly a quarter of an hour before she could gather herself to speak.

Father had scarcely emerged from his study in the entire three days since 'the incident' as Mycroft had taken to calling it (Though, really, when considering the sheer number of such 'incidents' that could be attributed to his brother's particular form of anti-social behaviour, Mycroft really should see about establishing a numbering and reference system at some point. He needed an assistant.), and ventured out for only the basic necessities, though he could occasionally be heard roaring into the telephone at his various secretaries, managers, and board members.

Sherlock was, well, just as _Sherlock_ as ever. Little seemed to alarm him so long as he had his books and experiments at his fingertips and his army of toy soldiers lined up on his dresser to bear witness to his astounding conclusions.

Mycroft supposed that, given his age, Sherlock couldn't be held entirely responsible for recognizing the necessity of conforming to societal convention. But then, not every eight year-old had the power and deductive ability to bring an entire section of London's social and business sectors to a screaming halt by sneaking into the dining room to study the guests in attendance. He'd managed it however. Right there, in the middle of one of his mother's frequent parties he'd commented upon the signs of his father's indiscretions with the wife of the Italian ambassador.

Father really should have taken more care with his cuff links and the part of his hair.

So, Mycroft reasoned, it was up to him to find a solution to the current conundrum of familial disharmony. He resented the time it would take him away from his current projects, as well as the effort the follow-through of his plan would require, but such was life when one had responsibilities.

He, at fifteen, had just as advanced a mind as his troublesome brother. Add to that a far greater understanding of social expectations, access to the catalogues of the finest shops on the planet, and the ability to forge his brother's handwriting, and Mycroft knew that he could bring peace and relative-quiet-so-long-as-the-combustibles-were-kept-from-Sherlock's-reach to their home once again.

**[Found slipped under the locked door to the Holmes' study along with two files, one a page torn from a fashion catalogue with an encircled picture of a spectacular jewelled necklace and earrings set and the other dog-eared to the page of fine, rare wines appreciated by diplomats world-round.]**

_Dear Father,_

_I apologise for my inappropriate deductions over dinner and will endeavour to refocus my educational efforts to more suitable pursuits in the future. Along this line I have included two suggestions that would make for a sure-to-be well-received olive branch to the other concerned parties at Mummy's party._

_With regrets,  
>Sherlock<em>

::

Lestrade growled softly under his breath and rolled his eyes, tossing the fancy stationery onto his desk and dropping his face into his hands to rub briskly.

It had been a long day. A long, long, _long_ day, filled with bizarrely dressed corpses fished out of the Thames and Sherlock Holmes sniping at everyone in his general vicinity who did not manage to match his _massive intellect._

Which was everyone.

Even John Watson's understanding glances and murmured apologies weren't enough to blunt the anger and frustration emanating from Donovan and Anderson by the end of the day. And now Lestrade had a 'situation' on his hands.

″It's either the freak or us, Lestrade! If he continues to swan about like master of the realm and treat us as his lowly peons, we're out. We've decided; we'll take leave until we can be transferred. Cite mental health and wellness reasons.″ Donovan snorted. ″We've been dealing with him so long it'd certainly be accurate enough claim to make.″

Lestrade had sighed and ordered them home to calm down and hopefully gain some perspective on the entire mess. Idly he'd noted that they left separately, though with Anderson's wife off for a lengthy visit with the family once again, God knew how long that would be the case.

He groaned and refocused on the work at hand. It had been a fucking long day, and now he had to deal with this?

He took up his pen again, setting it to the paper and trying to find the proper balance between conceivably-could-have-been-written-by-Sherlock and not-such-a-piss-poor-excuse-for-an-apology-that-it-would-cock-things-up-further.

Though he didn't delude himself into thinking this would eliminate the strain between his team and their madman Consulting Detective, Lestrade did hope it would be enough to keep them tolerating each other, if only just, for a while longer.

**[Two copies of the following letter, found on desks of Sergeant Sally Donovan and Technician Anderson. Donovan's contained a note suggesting that she ought to check her phone contacts to ensure that none of her saved numbers had been mysteriously changed to that of a local porn shop and Anderson's contained the spare key to Donovan's apartment that had been ****conspicuously absent from his key chain.]**

_Donovan / Anderson,_

_Apologies for the misunderstanding earlier. Rigours of the case, you know. Do hope this will not affect our future ability to work together to fulfil our duties to the city and all that._

_Sherlock Holmes_

_P.S. You might wish to look to your pockets more often, one never knows what might slip out accidentally whilst climbing around a crime scene._

::

Mike felt bad about how his friend – well, acquaintance... well, fellow scientist – Sherlock generally treated those around him. He felt especially bad for Molly Hooper. The poor woman carried such a torch for the generally oblivious detective and received little encouragement and significant irritation and hurt feelings for her efforts.

After one particularly difficult week in which Sherlock spent a significant amount of time in the labs and morgue, both conducting experiments and examining the remains of several local youths involved in a illegals smuggling ring, all while hardly deigning to offer Molly a kind word for her troubles in assisting him, Mike knew that he had to do something.

Molly's spirits were clearly flagging, and she simply wasn't her usual cheerful, organised self – even when Sherlock wasn't around to fluster her.

He'd only meant to perk her up a bit, that's all.

**[Found propped on the keyboard of Molly's computer with a still-steaming cup of coffee, made precisely how she preferred it, sitting next to her terminal.]**

_Dear Molly,_

_I wanted to ensure that you knew that I value your assistance in my research. Your contributions to my work have been invaluable._

_Sherlock_

In retrospect, Mike was not entirely sure his decision had been wise, given that it only seemed to worsen Molly's attraction to the completely unconcerned Sherlock.

It had made Molly smile, though. She did have a lovely smile.

::

Jim giggled as he arranged the scene before him. Just about per-

He froze, his eyes narrowing and the grin falling from his face like rain. After a moment's contemplation he carefully and precisely reached out one gloved hand and removed a single strand of dark, curly hair from the pillowcase he'd just been painstakingly rearranging.

This would not do. It would not do at _all_.

**[Found placed upon John's slashed pillow amidst a scattering of feathers. Beside it lies a dog biscuit and a collar. The inscription on the collar reads: J. Watson. Mutt. If found, return to owner S. Holmes at 221B Baker Street, London, or have put down.]**

_Dear Pet,_

_Poor mutt, you _have_ been roughly treated recently, haven't you? Don't fret; the training is the hardest part._

_I thought that, in reward for your loyalty, you deserved a little treat. Good boy!_

_Love and kisses!  
>Your Master<em>

::

John crushed another sheet of Sherlock's finest stationery into a ball and tossed it towards the bin. It bounced off the already overflowing contents, of course, since Sherlock couldn't ever be arsed to help out around the place given that all his _plentiful_ free time was spent having tantrums and sulking.

John just couldn't seem to gather the concentration necessary to put aside his irritation and cobble together a proper apology begging for understanding and, hopefully, delaying an eviction notice.

It did not help that Sherlock would periodically stomp into the room, sigh dramatically, and fling himself onto the nearest cushioned surface, not caring whether John might already be occupying said surface.

The holes in the wall of his flat seemed to be mocking his predicament as well.

**[Found crumpled into a ball beside the bin]**

_Dear Mrs. Hudson,_

_As I am confident you are already aware, given your penchant for peering through peep-holes and listening in on the conversations and activities of others, I had another depression and boredom-fuelled breakdown and shot up the flat again. Obviously I maintain that it's John's fault for carelessly leaving his gun where I can find it._

_I cannot promise that this incident will not happen again; this is the second such event, after all, and I am just as barmy as ever. I don't imagine I will change my habits at this late a date, especially considering that, like an attention seeking toddler, such antics get me all the attention I not-so-secretly crave, be it positive or negative._

_Until next time!_

_Your great git of a tenant,  
>Sherlock<em>

_oOo  
><em>

Sherlock, the exertion of pouting and sighing having obviously exhausted him, had fallen asleep on the couch alongside John with his head resting upon John's thigh. He snuffled, shifting, and pressed his face restlessly against John's abdomen, not settling again until John set his right hand on his tousled hair and began to card his fingers through the strands.

John sighed, rubbing his face with his free hand and narrowly avoided stabbing himself in the eye with his pen.

**[Found taped to Mrs. Hudson's front door along with a vase of roses set upon the stoop]**

_Dear Mrs. Hudson,_

_I very deeply regret the damage caused to the walls of the flat. It was not my intention to cause you further distress. I will be sure to pay for the repairs as soon as possible._

_In the future, I will endeavour to find healthier and less expensive methods of battling my ennui._

_Yours,  
>Sherlock<em>

::

Sherlock was careful in sliding the bedside drawer open and removing the paper and pen he'd stashed there earlier. While doing so he had oiled the drawer's runners as well.

If you were going to do a thing, it was best to put the effort into doing it right.

Sherlock smirked. That was a truism that applied to _multiple_ activities.

As if reading his thoughts, John snuffled beside Sherlock and turned his face into the pillow. His hand patted blindly across the sheets for a moment before finding Sherlock's hip, gripping him tightly for a moment before sliding, sufficiently reassured, back into proper sleep.

Despite his disinclination to suffer personal inconvenience, Sherlock did not wish to wake John from his desperately needed slumber. The man had been run ragged for the past seventy-two hours, following Sherlock across London and tracking down clues and suspects connected to London's newest organised theft syndicate and only catching the occasional catnap amidst breakthroughs in the case. Their adrenaline-fueled celebration after cracking the case had been considerably demanding as well.

Hence the need for this letter. John had grown rather more... uninhibited in his responses over time.

Sherlock ghosted his fingers across the hand that still rested on his hip, warmth bleeding through the thin material of the sheet that covered him.

Fact: John needed his rest. Fact: John was also an extremely light sleeper. Therefore: slipping out of bed in favour of the living room or turning on a light were not viable options. Sherlock would have to rely on the scant light slipping between the drapes and his own precise spatial memory to form this letter.

Sherlock ran his fingers across the surface and edges of the paper, orienting himself to its familiar dimensions, took up his pen and began to write.

**[Found pinned to Mrs. Hudson's front door-jamb with a small letter-opener shaped like a rapier. From its pommel hung a pair of earplugs.]**

_Dear Mrs. Hudson,_

_Judging by the pounding from the direction of your flat last evening, the insulation between the floors of this building is rather poor._

_I apologise for interrupting your rest._

_In an effort to plan for such future incidents, I have purchased for you an item that may help ensure you a sounder sleep without 'interruptions'._

_Sincerely,  
>John Watson<em>


End file.
